red and blue collide
by emilyforprez
Summary: small pieces about the comic bff, vincent/teddy
1. collide

**A/N****:** this comic is really great and i recommend it even though i hate comics and my friends just wanted me to read it, it's called bff and can be found by searching 'bff' and 'nematodeinspace' into google, have fun

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><p>It happened when Vincent got major buffed and the acne cleared, when he became the subject of every girl's fantasy and every guy's envy. It happened when Vincent rose to the top of the food chain and Teddy still stayed at the bottom, below the anime club and just above the guy who picks his nose at lunch.<p>

"You're my best friend," like a mantra, over and over, whispered into flesh, skin-on-skin, hearts thrumming together, synchronizing. Teddy's hands on his shoulders, lips touching the pulse point just beneath his jawline.

"Always." _Always, always, always_. Vincent touches his nose to Teddy's spine and whispers "always" into his skin, watching the beads of sweat forming at the nape of his neck.

And they don't talk about it. Tongue tied, Teddy thinks, that's the term for it.

They don't talk about the whispered words and the wandering hands and the way Vincent looked when he came, bathed in an ethereal light from the stars and the shrouded moon, the way the guilt battled affection and longing in his eyes, the way they sat there against the car and said nothing at all. A comfortable silence.

They don't talk about it, they never have, and when Teddy tries to, Vincent shuts down. Doesn't speak. Flushes red and angry and ashamed.

Teddy wonders what Vincent's dad would say if he said, shoulders slumped and head down, "I'm _gay_." He wonders if the bruises and the welts from the beating would cause concern at school. If Vincent would brush it off and laugh about a fight with a guy over a girl. Simple. Easy. He thinks about what his dad would do, how he would react, and maybe that's why Teddy doesn't hate Vincent, not even a little, for refusing to look at him and talk to him about the wandering hands and whispered words.

"I can't." Vincent's eyes are wide and glassy and he looks like a mirage in the darkness. "You know that, right?"

And Teddy doesn't speak, doesn't say a word, in fear of not being able to stop talking if he opens his mouth. But he nods, he glances sideways at Vincent, watches the guilt and longing like a tempest raging across his face, and he understands everything perfectly clear.


	2. million

A million years ago, it seems like.

Teddy has eyes that no one really sees from far away, always lost in the reflection of his glasses or downcast in the faces of the cruel, but up close, Vincent sees everything. There's laughter in his smile and something else in the way he brushes his thumb along the inside of Vincent's palm, warm and invasive and secret.

"I'm sorry she dumped you," Teddy says, and he doesn't really look sorry.

_She _doesn't matter (what was her name?) and Vincent breathes out through his nose and can't remember who or what Teddy is talking about.

His hand is warm and small in comparison and Vincent almost rests his chin on Teddy's shoulder before he remembers why that would matter. He laughs instead, uneasy and restless and his stomach crawling with a feeling he can't name.

A million years ago, in the cheap artificial lighting, Vincent remembers the summer (and the night they don't talk about, the roadtrip that never passes through their lips, the way Vincent pressed a kiss to the patch of soft skin just above the prominent knobs of Teddy's spine), and he remembers why everything matters so much, and he kind of falls in love, slow and easy, the easiest thing he'll ever do.


	3. pity

"Your boyfriend's getting his game on."

Vincent shakes off the comment, shrugs a little, drowns himself in the punch that tastes more like water and sugar than anything else. The song is something familiar he probably hates, but he can't remember the name. He can't really remember anything. He wishes he were drunk, which is something he doesn't wish often, a special occasion by all means.

"Seriously, who knew he liked girls?" titters a girl next to him (she has a name; he doesn't know it), her voice high and nasally. "We all thought he was, you know —" She gives Vincent a side-glance full of premonition that he pretends he doesn't notice.

The thing is, Teddy looks like he's really enjoying himself, and Penelope has a pretty face and a nice smile. Vincent doesn't want to ruin this. Maybe he couldn't even if he tried.

Someone shoves his shoulder hard enough to bruise. "Quit staring at him like a faggoty little puppy."

Teddy laughs loud and genuine and Penelope looks nice in a flowery dress and Vincent swears seven times that he doesn't love him, the sugar water burning into something vinegary and sour in his throat.


	4. options

With his hand slipping beneath the elastic of his boxers, Vincent tries really hard to get inspired.

There was a girl he dated last year who had great boobs that he once got to touch. It was kind of exciting, but she dumped him over something dumb that he can't even remember, so jacking it in her memory is a terrible idea, and the half-naked girl pasted on his wall looks awkward and concave at this angle.

So really, when he's thinking about how stupidly soft and warm Teddy's skin is when his dick is tightening under his fingers, it's only because he has no other option.

Obviously.


	5. down

"Vincent."

In the half-light, dim and orange, Vincent thinks Teddy looks beautiful. He stops himself from saying it out loud — too gay. The streetlight buzzes its apprehension, flickers. There are too many stars in the sky. "You look so good."

The lurch he makes towards him is involuntarily, and he has a sudden nausea in his stomach. "Ow."

"Are you drunk?" The worry and concern in Teddy's voice actually pisses Vincent off. He hates it when Teddy sounds like that, makes that high-pitched cooing noise, but he doesn't hate it, just hates how it makes him feel, hates how his stomach flip-flops.

He doesn't answer, just presses his hands to Teddy's shoulders, willing him to stop talking or thinking or anything, and Vincent can't stop thinking about everything, the way his friends always tease him, the way Teddy looked with Penelope on his arm. "Don't move."

He leans in, slowly, his head swimming. Teddy's mouth is so close, so warm and soft and wet, and Vincent hasn't been gay in a while, since at least last summer, at least. But it is what it is, in the half-light, in a dark corner of the town, in his suit for prom. It's colder than it should be. Vincent imagined this better when he was sober.

He almost makes it. Teddy doesn't move, doesn't say a thing, and Vincent can't tell if he's breathing. But just a hairbreadth away from kissing him, just a sliver, and Teddy makes a noise, a feral sound that erupts from his lungs. Wrenches away, and in the orange light, his eyes glitter with flame.

"No. You can't." Teddy's voice is firm and suddenly Vincent feels small and sad and very lonely.

"Why?" Last summer, his tongue in the shallow dips between the bumps of Teddy's spine. Last summer and it was his teeth making tiny nips and marks on the back of Teddy's neck, and his hands on his hips, and his fingers touching his ribcage to feel the heart thrumming on the other side. "Last summer," he says, like it's an answer, like it means something.

The memory flits quick and easy through Teddy's eyes. "You said, you told me no. You said your mom would never — and you said no. You told me that."

Vincent doesn't know how to say that he changed his mind without sounding like a tool, so he says nothing.

"Last summer," Teddy says, and his hands are wringing together, "you said_ no_ and I listened to you. Why won't you let me —"

He huffs, makes another angry noise from deep in his throat, and Vincent will always ruin everything he touches. Teddy doesn't ever finish his sentence. He says, "Penelope is giving me a ride home." He gives Vincent looks of pity and regret and Vincent is still too drunk to feel anything.

He goes home alone. Walks in a straight line. Wishes he were straight. Wishes he could remember why he said no, last summer. Mom doesn't notice the alcohol on his breath when he gets home, doesn't notice him at all, and Vincent bites down on his arm until he draws blood and tears and anger and he'll never be weightless.


End file.
